From The German

SONG OF THE LONELY.

Son, first-born, at home abiding! All without is cold and bare: Hide me from the tempest’s chiding Warm beside the Father’s chair.

I am homesick, Lord of splendour! Twilight fills my soul with fright: Let thy countenance befriend her, Shining from the halls of light.

I am homesick, loving Father! Long years hath the pain increased: Soon, oh soon! thy children gather To the endless marriage-feast.

FROM PETRARCH.

PART I. SONNET LIX.

I am so weary with the burden old Of foregone faults, and power of custom base, That much I fear to perish from the ways, And fall into my enemy’s grim fold. True, a high friend, to free me, not with gold, Came, of ineffable and utmost grace-- Then straightway vanished from before my face, So that in vain I strive him to behold. But his voice yet comes echoing below: O ye that labour, the way open lies! Come unto me lest some one shut the gate! --What heavenly grace--what love will--or what fate-- The pinions of a dove on me bestow That I may rest, and from the earth arise?

PART II. SONNET LXXV.

The elect angels and the souls in bliss, The citizens of heaven, when, that first day, My lady passed from me and went their way, Of marvel and pity full, did round her press. “What light is this, and what new loveliness?” They said among them; “for such sweet display Did never mount, that from the earth did stray To this high dwelling, all this age, we guess!” She, well content her lodging chang’d to find, Shows perfect, by her peers most perfect placed; And now and then half turning looks behind To see if I walk in the way she traced: Hence I lift heavenward all my heart and mind Because I hear her pray me to make haste.

MILTON’S ITALIAN POEMS.

The Italian scholar will understand that the retention of the feminine rimes in translation from this language is an impossibility.

I.

O Lady fair, whose honoured name doth grace Green vale and noble ford of Rheno’s stream-- Of all worth void the man I surely deem Whom thy fair soul enamoureth not apace, When softly self-revealed to time and space By actions sweet with which thy will doth teem, And fair gifts that Love’s bow and arrows seem-- But are the flowers that crown thy perfect race. When thou dost lightsome talk or gladsome sing,-- A power to draw the hill-trees, rooted hard-- The doors of eyes and ears let that man keep Who knows himself unworthy thy regard! Grace from above alone him help can bring That Passion in his heart strike not too deep.

II.

As in the twilight brown, on hillside bare, Useth to go the little shepherd maid, Watering some strange fair plant, poorly displayed, Ill thriving in unwonted soil and air Far from its native springtime’s genial care; So on my ready tongue hath Love assayed In a strange speech to wake new flower and blade, While I of thee, proud yet so debonair, Sing songs whose sense is to my people lost-- Yield the fair Thames, and the fair Arno gain. Love willed it so, and I, at others’ cost, Already knew Love never willed in vain: Would my heart slow and bosom hard were found To him who plants from heaven so fair a ground!

III.

CANZONE.

Ladies, and youths that in their favour bask, With mocking smiles come round me: Prithee, why, Why dost thou with an unknown language cope, Love-riming? Whence thy courage for the task? Tell us--so never frustrate be thy hope, And the best thought still to thy thinking fly! Thus me they mock: Thee other streams, they cry, Thee other shores, another sea demands Upon whose verdant strands Are budding, even this moment, for thy hair Immortal guerdon, bays that will not die: An over-burden on thy back why bear?-- Song, I will tell thee; thou for me reply: My lady saith--and her word is my heart-- This is Love’s mother-tongue, and fits his part.

IV.

Diodati--and I muse to tell the tale-- This stubborn I, that Love was wont despise And make a laughter of his snares, unwise, Am fallen--where honest feet will sometimes fail. Not golden tresses, not a cheek vermeil, Dazzle me thus; but, in a new-world guise, A foreign Fair my heart beatifies-- With mien where high-souled modesty I hail; Eyes softly splendent with a darkness dear; A speech that more than one tongue vassal hath; A voice that in the middle hemisphere Might make the tired moon wander from her path; While from her eyes such gracious flashes shoot That stopping hard my ears were little boot.

V.

Certes, my lady sweet, your blessed eyes-- It cannot be but that they are my sun; As strong they smite me as he smites upon The man whose way o’er Libyan desert lies, The while a vapour hot doth me surprise From that side springing where my pain doth won: Perchance accustomed lovers--I am none And know not--in their speech call such things sighs: A part shut in, sore vexed, itself conceals, And shakes my bosom; part, undisciplined, Breaks forth, and all around to ice congeals; But that which to mine eyes the way doth find, Makes all my nights in silent showers abound, Until my dawn returns, with roses crowned.

VI.

A modest youth, in love a simpleton, When to escape myself I seek and shift, Lady, I of my heart the humble gift Vow unto thee. In trials many a one, True, brave, I’ve found it, firm to things begun; By gracious, prudent, worthy thoughts uplift. When roars the great world, in the thunder-rift, Its own self, armour adamant, it will don, From chance and envy as securely barred, From fears and hopes that still the crowd abuse, As inward gifts and high worth coveting, And the resounding lyre, and every Muse: There only wilt thou find it not so hard Where Love hath fixed his ever cureless sting.

LUTHER’S SONG-BOOK.

DAME MUSIC.

Of all the joys earth possesses, None the gladness fine surpasses Which I give you with my singing, And with much harmonious ringing.

An evil spirit cannot dwell Where companions are singing well; Here strife, wrath, envy, hate, are not; Every heartache must leave the spot: Greed, care, all things that hard oppress Troop off with great unwillingness.

Also each man is free to this-- For such a joy no trespass is, God himself pleasing better far Than all the joys on earth that are; It breaks the toils by Satan spun, And many a murder keeps undone.

Of this, King David is the proof, Who often Saul did hold aloof, All with his harping sweet and well, That he not into murder fell.

For God’s own truth, in word and will It makes the heart ready and still; That knew Elisha well, I wot, When he the Spirit by harping got.

The best time of the year is mine, When all the little birds sing fine, Fill heaven and earth full of their strain: Much good singing is going then; The nightingale the lead she takes, And everything right merry makes With her gladsome lovely song, For which great thanks to her belong.

But more to our dear Lord God, much, Who has created the bird such, A songstress of the true right sort, A mistress of the music-art: She sings and springs, both nights and days, To him, not weary of his praise. Him lauding come my songs as well, My everlasting thanks to tell.

LUTHER’S SONG-BOOK.